


Feels Like Home

by agent_starbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Episode: s06e15 Arcadia, F/M, Tumblr Prompt, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 12:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19209703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_starbuck/pseuds/agent_starbuck
Summary: 200. “It’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka.”Tumblr Prompt. Fluff piece set during Arcadia. Mulder makes Scully breakfast.





	Feels Like Home

She wakes to the smell of coffee and bacon wafting through the crisp, pre-dawn air.

 

The clanging sound of pots and pans echo beyond the walls of her provisional bedroom, and she squints through one eye at the clock on the nightstand.

 

5:56 am.

 

Normally, she doesn’t wake up until six, and she silently mourns the extra four minutes that she won’t get to enjoy in blissful slumber as she stretches languidly between the sheets. Sheets that feel just a little too rough to be hers.

 

In a bed that feels a little too stiff to be hers.

 

The tempo of her heart quickens as soon as she becomes aware of her surroundings and where she is– two pressing thoughts immediately pushing their way to the forefront of her conscious mind:

 

_One. This isn’t her house._

_Two. Someone is making breakfast._

 

Slipping on her robe, she stumbles her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and use the toilet, nearly stubbing her toe on Mulder’s suitcase placed haphazardly outside the doorway.

 

 _“Dammit, Mulder. That’s the fourth warning,”_  she mutters under her breath

 

As she makes her way down the stairs to the kitchen, she’s almost too scared to hazard a guess at what she might find waiting for her around the corner. A pile of dirty dishes and burnt toast, perhaps. She’s not very well-acquainted with Mulder’s culinary habits or if Mulder even  _has_  culinary habits, but the last six years spent rummaging through his meager cabinets and fridge have given her a pretty good idea.

 

What she sees, instead, makes her mouth go dry.

 

Mulder is standing in front of the range, wearing nothing but a pair of black, cotton boxer briefs and a fitted grey t-shirt. She takes a moment to candidly run her eyes along the length of his long, lean runner’s legs to the swell of his tight ass, and a blush burns through her cheeks. She’s never had the opportunity to just stop and admire his perfectly proportioned body before. She’s seen him in far less, but this somehow feels more intimate. There’s a certain domestic easiness that settles in the atmosphere around her. She could get used to this.

 

It nearly takes every ounce of self-control she possesses not to walk up behind him, and wrap her arms around his torso. To bury her nose in the cocoon between his strong shoulder blades, and inhale the sleep-worn scent of him. To press a kiss against the soft cotton of his shirt and linger there, feeling the faint beat of his heart thrum against her lips.

 

It astonishes her how much she wants that. And how much she wasn’t aware of that fact until this very moment.

 

A fluffy pancake tumbles through the air and lands on the skillet in a perfectly-timed flip just as she makes her presence known.

 

“Morning, Scully,” he turns and smiles. “Or should I call you Laura?”

 

Her heart sinks into her stomach.  _Oh, that’s right. That’s why they’re here._

 

“It’s too early for Laura. I need coffee first.”

 

“What a coincidence,” he perks up. “I just happen to have a cup with your name on it right here.” He takes the pot and pours a mug before adding just the right amount of cream and scooting it across the counter to her. The first sip is heavenly.

 

“Mmmm, thank you Mulder,” she breathes into her cup and smiles, lips lingering on the rim as his eyes linger on her before he turns around to tend to breakfast.

 

“Eggs scrambled?”

 

“Uh, yeah. That’s fine,” she replies as she watches him expertly crack six eggs into the bowl with one hand and whisk in a little milk. The muscles in his forearms ripple in time with his movements and she doesn’t think she could be any more turned on by watching someone make breakfast than she is right now.

 

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she prods because frankly she’s still stunned that he even knows what a whisk is. This is a side of Mulder she’s never experienced. She’s still having a hard time believing it. Just eight hours ago she had to remind him to put the toilet seat down.

 

“I don’t, normally. Mostly because I never see the point in cooking an entire meal for just myself,” he admits while pouring the egg mixture into the pan. “I guess it’s just easier to eat out.”

 

He wipes his hands on the kitchen towel, throwing it over his broad shoulder as he finishes up and fixes them each a plate.

 

“Here. Sit,” he demands as he carries their meal to the table, walking back to retrieve drinks from the fridge. “Orange juice? Milk? Apple juice? Vodka?”

 

“Vodka? Wow, the Bureau spared no expense. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t on the grocery list you gave Agent Handler.”

 

“We’re in the middle of Utopic Suburbsville, Scully. There’s probably Vodka in every refrigerator in this entire neighborhood. I know I’d start drinking if I had to live next to all these perfect weirdos. Besides, it goes great with OJ,” he waggles his eyebrows.

 

“It’s six o'clock in the morning. You’re not having vodka.”

 

“Jeez, live a little. Rob and Laura Petrie would,” he cracks a grin and she hates that he can look this good, this early in the morning, with his tousled hair and the shadow of his stubble peaking out against his sharp jaw.

 

 _“I’m sure that’s not all Rob and Laura Petrie would do,”_  she mumbles under her breath.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Nothing,” she clears her throat. “Orange juice is fine, Mulder. Sans Vodka, please.”

 

They eat in companionable silence, sharing the newspaper and stolen, furtive glances, and it isn’t the least bit awkward. In fact it feels normal. It’s the most normal thing she’s felt since they’ve arrived here. She tries to not let herself get caught up in the magic of it all. This isn’t real, she repeats like a mantra.

 

But she wants it to be. Oh, does she want it to be.


End file.
